


Hoarse

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [14]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench stirred and opened his eyes, and Numbers was at his side in a heartbeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoarse

Wrench stirred and opened his eyes, and Numbers was at his side in a heartbeat. "Hey, hey," he said aloud, brushing the bangs back from Wrench's face; it was too hot in the motel room, sticky hot, but the radiator wouldn't turn off and Numbers sure as hell wasn't going to call maintenance to come check on it. Wrench still had that fever-bright sparkle to his eyes, but Numbers had been watching that like the proverbial hawk, and though he'd remained warm since they'd gotten there, he'd never gotten dangerously so. He licked his dry lips and tried to sit up -- and got no farther than an inch or so before his left arm buckled from the pain.

Numbers caught him and helped him upright a little more, easing a pillow under him. Feeling better? he signed with the hand that wasn't around Wrench's back. As if he weren't self-conscious enough about his communication skills already, having to talk left-handed made him even less confident. Still, he was gratified when Wrench sighed and nodded. Good, Numbers signed back; hungry?

At least Wrench thought about it this time before shaking his head. "Well, try drink this anyway," said Numbers, bringing a kid-sized carton of chocolate milk to Wrench's lips. It wasn't much by any measure, but it was the best he could get living out of vending machines and the motel's shitty free continental breakfast. He didn't want to go any farther than that -- hell, he didn't even want to go that far. The thought of Wrench waking up alone and needing something and being unable to call for help was not something he was quite prepared to deal with at the moment.

That finished, Wrench sighed and let his head loll back against the headboard. Numbers waited until he'd opened his eyes again, then sighed: I have to check your bandage. Do you want more drugs?

The response to that was a very emphatic nod.

~*~

The doctor -- who refused to give his name -- was a shady bastard, though if there was one thing Numbers had learned through years of experience, it was that fine, upstanding pillars of the medical community weren't the type who ended up patching up bad guys in shitty rooms. "Went clean through," the doctor said, as though Numbers hadn't been able to tell that from the big bloody mess on both sides of Wrench's left shoulder. He put a pill bottle on the dresser, right next to the television. "One of these every twelve hours, until the bottle's done."

"Thanks, doc," said Numbers. He didn't try to shake the man's hand, and he didn't expect the gesture would have been returned even if he had. "Can we go?"

The doctor's pinched face drew into an even more ratlike scowl as he looked around the room. At last, he sighed and gave a little nod. "If you _have_ to. Don't let _me_ stop you, at any rate. But I wouldn't for a week, if you can help it." He turned to leave, then turned back, pointing a finger at Numbers' chest in a way that was just _begging_ for Numbers to break it, come on, give him a reason. "Tell your boss those things aren't cheap."

Numbers gaze moved slowly to the bottle of pills on the dresser, then to the doctor's face, then back to his finger, tracing a menacing triangle. "I'm sure whatever you're into him for isn't either."

The doctor snorted, but there was clear fear in the sound. He didn't say anything else as he gathered the various supplies he'd pulled out of his bag, and he left without looking back. As soon as the door shut behind him, Numbers reached down and grabbed Wrench's toe beneath the covers, giving it a little shake. Wrench opened his eyes, which took a moment to focus; whatever the doc had given him, it had been good. What did he say? he signed, or at least Numbers _thought_ he signed; the only thing more difficult than signing one-handed was reading druggy, limp, one-handed signs.

Said it was doomed, Numbers signed back with a straight face. Have to chop it off.

Wrench's response was a sleepy middle finger, which made Numbers laugh. Said to rest a week, he clarified; have to take-- He looked over at the bottle and realized he didn't know the sign for anything they were, so he defaulted to A-N-T-I-B-I-O-T-I-C-S.

Wrench gave a dopey nod and shut his eyes again. Within seconds, he was snoring. At least someone here could sleep.

~*~

There were things they didn't talk about, like how if the mark had shot Numbers first, neither of them would have been here to recover from it. Numbers peeled the bandage away from Wrench's shoulder, and Wrench didn't so much as wince as the bloodied gauze pulled away from his skin, but his jaw set tighter and the corners of his eyes narrowed with pain. "Sorry," said Numbers, who didn't have the hands at the moment to sign it.

Wrench just nodded and took a deep breath, then let it out in a slow, thin stream from his nostrils. He was pale, and the edges of his eyes were rimmed bright red. Numbers -- who'd been stabbed, kicked, thrown out of a moving car, hit upside the head a couple times, stabbed again, and tossed down a flight of stairs, but never _shot_ before -- wanted to say this was the first time he'd had to deal with something like this, but that was a laugh. Necessity had made him a passable field medic and experience had completed his training.

It was hard to say that an injury like this didn't look bad, but there was 'not bad' and there was 'not bad for a gunshot wound', and this one was more in the latter category. The flesh around both entry and exit was red and puffy, but showed no signs of infection, so maybe that doctor did deserve a bit of credit, much though Numbers was reluctant to give it. Numbers brushed the skin with a damp cloth to clean it, and Wrench hissed in air through his teeth, but otherwise made no other protest. Strong, silent type indeed.

He felt the muscles of Numbers' bicep tense as they both tried to hold him still for the examination. Even as medicated as he was, he still twitched like a colt ready to run as soon as the gate went up. More times than he could count, Numbers had woken up in one of their shared motel rooms or walked out of the bathroom of the same to the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing, only to find Wrench on the floor, shirtless and sweat-soaked, doing more pushups in one morning than Numbers had done in his whole life. He could only guess what amount of their shared downtime Wrench spent at a gym, working out with that terrifying single-minded ferocity of his. Numbers had met plenty of keyed-up guys before, ones ready to jump at the slightest loud noise, but that wasn't Wrench at all. He was more like a primed machine, well-fed and well-oiled, ready to go just as soon as the switch was set to 'on'.

Hands occupied, Numbers leaned back and tapped Wrench's neck with his pinky into Wrench opened his eyes. "Ow," mouthed Numbers as clearly as he could, and Wrench's jaw set for what was coming next.

~*~

"You need _such_ a haircut," said Numbers, and when Wrench raised an eyebrow, Numbers made scissors of his fingers and mimed chopping his own hair, then took the mime to shaving his cheeks. Wrench rolled his eyes and waved a limp hand to and away from his chest: Whatever.

"You are _only_ saying that because of the amount of drugs you're on," Numbers said aloud, signing a much simplified version of the sentiment as he spoke. Wrench's odd vanity was something so adorable that Numbers had before only acknowledged it with the most passing of remarks, lest he make his young partner self-conscious. So not a word had ever slipped his lips or crooked his fingers about the hours Wrench spent in front of chipped motel bathroom mirrors with comb and razor, sculpting himself into whatever arrangement had struck his fancy that season. In their line of work, they ran into more than their fair share of peacocking mobsters, men who wanted to show off their expensive haircuts and expensive suits and expensive girlfriends, but from Wrench, it seemed much simpler -- he was handsome and he liked looking good, not looking like money. Money hadn't worn boots like those since 1978 anyway.

Wrench shrugged and then nodded, acknowledging Numbers' probable correctness on the matter -- then waved him aside, because Numbers had moved into his line of sight of the television. Numbers sighed and went to get another slice from the pizza box sitting on the end of the other bed. Breakfast of champions.

~*~

When the thought came to Numbers' full attention, it startled him into a barking laugh that sent a tremor through the cheap box spring. Wrench frowned at him, and Numbers told him, I know what your voice sounds like now.

Wrench's eyes went wide, then narrowed dangerously. All that had ever been said on _that_ particular subject had come during a conversation where Wrench had acknowledged that, yes, he was capable of speech, and no, he wasn't going to demonstrate, ever. Numbers hadn't pressed the issue, at the time or since; it had been clear even from the context that this was another one of those matters not for discussion. After you got shot, Numbers explained, I had to push on it to stop the blood, and you... He put a hand to his lips and popped it out into the air, hoping that didn't have connotations of 'screamed like a girl'. That wasn't quite right, anyway; Wrench hadn't screamed, he'd shouted, and he'd sounded very much like himself.

Wrench brought a hand to his throat and made a gutteral noise, then looked back to Numbers: What do I sound like?

Now _that_ was a tough question to answer based only on the way a man had sounded when in pain, but Numbers wasn't going to let the answer get bogged down under an explanation about how shouting wasn't a good way to distinguish vocal tone -- or disappear into a simple 'I don't know' brush of the forehead. Dusty, Numbers answered, and H-O-A-R-S-E. He raised an eyebrow to make sure Wrench knew the connotations of that last word, and when Wrench nodded, Numbers nodded back: Like a car on a cold morning. He mimed turning a key in the ignition several frustrated times.

That brought a little smile to Wrench's lips: Makes sense.

High, Numbers added, and when Wrench frowned, he clarified, high for a man, not high like a woman. T-E-N-O-R.

Men are supposed to have low voices, Wrench protested. He was using both his hands to sign again now, though his inclusion of the left was at times often obvious sheer painful stubbornness.

Not like a woman, Numbers repeated. Like ... a drum, not an earthquake. In the middle. A little like me.

Wrench brought his hand back to his own throat and cleared it, then made a little grunting sound. Aside from his pained cry from several days ago, Numbers hadn't heard him vocalize that much ever. He supposed it made sense for a deaf guy to be quiet, but exactly _how_ quiet he'd been became that much more pronounced by contrast. What are you doing? Numbers asked, pointing to Wrench's hand.

That's what they taught us at school, Wrench told him: my hand on my throat to tell if I'm making sound.

Numbers frowned, then put a hand to his own throat and hummed a few notes -- and there it was, that buzz of noise. He supposed he'd gone his whole life without noticing it; it was too normal to be remarked upon, and he'd never needed anything but his ears to check on what sounds he was making. "Son of a bitch," he said, surprised.

Making sound? Wrench asked, then pointed to Numbers' throat. 

Numbers nodded and hummed a few more notes, and Wrench squinted, looking in close. He lifted his hand as though to reach for it -- then drew it back, letting his gaze fall and pressing his lips together. Numbers caught it before he could retract the gesture all the way, though, and lifted Wrench's fingers to wrap around throat, where he hummed again. Wrench's eyes popped wide before his face settled into a scolding frown: H-U-M is cheating.

Well, Numbers supposed that was fair -- and yet, for all the talking he'd had to do in his life, being called upon to speak on command gave him pause. Every word he'd ever learned raced from his mind, leaving him with a giant blank landscape inhabited by only one thing, one which he'd memorized years ago, swearing the whole time that he would erase it from his brain it as soon as its moment of usefulness passed. He'd never forgotten a syllable.

" _Vayigash Avraham vayomar ha'af tispeh tzaddik im-rasha,_ " Numbers said, letting the words flow out in the same song-chant in which he'd learned them as a boy, in his rabbi's dusty office, bent over books in a language he'd never wanted to learn, going through the motions of a duty he didn't feel. " _Ulay yesh chamishim tzaddikim betoch ha'ir ha'af tispeh velo-tisa lamakom lema'an chamishim hatzaddikim asher bekirbah._ "

For the first several words, Wrench stared at Numbers' mouth with the frown he often got while lip-reading, a skill Numbers had come to suspect was far harder for Wrench to perform than he ever made it out to be. Whether he realized the words weren't English or just gave up trying to piece them out, though, Wrench closed his eyes not long after. His grip put not-insignificant pressure on Numbers' neck, and if Numbers thought back into their shared history, he could remember a time not so far back when he'd felt the same pressure, only under much less friendly circumstances. Wrench must have been able to feel him then, too, he realized, and he chased that thought away as fast as he could, lest he be forced to replay just what he had been saying at the time. He hurt people for a living, after all, and sometimes that bled over so quickly into hurting people just because he could.

" _Chalilah lecha me'asot kadavar hazeh lehamit tzaddik im-rasha vehayah hatzaddik karasha chalilah lach hashofet kol-ha'aretz lo ya'aseh mishpat._ " Numbers put his hand over Wrench's to make sure Wrench didn't take this as a sign to pull away, then lay back on the bed, bringing Wrench back with him. It was an awkward sort of arrangement, one that ended with them both flat on their backs, side by side atop the covers; Wrench's bandaged arm lay still between them while his right arm stretched across his whole body, until his hand came to rest with a warm, steady weight on Numbers' throat. " _Vayomer HaShem im-emtza viSedom chamishim tzaddikim betoch ha'ir venasati lechol-hamakom ba'avuram._ "

By the time Abraham had bargained HaShem down to forty righteous men, Wrench's breathing had hit a slow, steady rhythm, and as Abraham got the number down to ten, Wrench let out a little snore. " _Vayelech HaShem ka'asher kilah ledaber el-Avraham ve'Avraham shav limekomo,_ " Numbers finished, then trailed off into silence without any following words of prayer. His own eyelids had grown so heavy, heavy, and he let them fall shut.

For ten righteous men, sure, he could see saving a city. But the messengers hadn't done their job anyway, he'd told his rabbi; okay, maybe they hadn't found ten righteous men, but they hadn't even _looked_. He'd understand when he got older, his rabbi had promised him. Like so many promises the old man had made, it had turned out to be bullshit. Maybe the _real_ lesson of the story was, a lot fewer people will get hurt if you do your fucking job right the first time.

That, at least, was a moral he could live with. He could feel his heartbeat thrum in the places Wrench's sleep-heavy hand pressed down on his skin, and he let that pulse lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for errors in the Hebrew transliteration; all verses were taken from [here](http://www.headcoverings-by-devorah.com/HebEngTaNaKh5.html#Bereishit%2018:1) and my own command of the language is not good enough to vouch for their accuracy.
> 
> This story used to be called 'Recovery', but I decided to get a little more uniform about naming conventions.


End file.
